Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Stamps God's Own Name Upon A Lie Just Made, To Turn A Penny In The Way Of Trade.

In The Vast, And The Minute, We See The Unambiguous Footsteps Of The God, Who Gives Its Lustre To An Insect's Wing And Wheels His Throne Upon The Rolling Worlds.

When Scandal Has New-minted An Old Lie, Or Tax'd Invention For A Fresh Supply, 'tis Call'd A Satire, And The World Appears Gathering Around It With Erected Ears; A Thousand Names Are Toss'd Into The Crowd, Some Whisper'd Softly, And Some Twang'd Aloud, Just As The Sapience Of An Author's Brain, Suggests It Safe Or Dangerous To Be Plain.

The Nurse Sleeps Sweetly, Hired To Watch The Sick, / Whom, Snoring, She Disturbs.

No Man Can Be A Patriot On An Empty Stomach.